


Fancy Man

by kissing2cousins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alleyway, Death, London, knife
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 10:02:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12208986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissing2cousins/pseuds/kissing2cousins
Summary: London isn’t always the safest of places, no matter who you are.





	Fancy Man

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on a long story but really needed to close my mind to the great big world that I had created for a while and this was the result. Hope you enjoy!

The constant hum of traffic was louder than his soft inhalation of breath as he was roughly grabbed from behind. One heavy, stinking hand clamped tightly over his mouth, the other twisting his left arm harshly up and behind him in a painful hold. The stranger pulled him backwards, away from the distant sight of people walking on a busier street and further into the alleyway he had just passed by.

He jerked once, an automatic reaction to being forced in a direction not of his own choosing and received a cruel twist to his captured arm as a reward. He was involuntarily dragged deeper into the alley, the entrance moving further away with each stumbling step that he was forced to make.

He was shoved harshly up against the wall, his free hand coming up to brace against it and attempt to keep any other part of his body from coming into contact with the repugnant surface. The sickening stench of decay assaulted his senses and his stomach twisted in protest of the revolting aroma. This was not at all how he had intended on spending his only free evening, being manhandled by a filthy, stinking brute who wouldn't know a wash flannel if it whipped him in the face and he most definitely did not appreciate being shoved against a wall that smelled of piss and vomit. 

The large, grime encrusted hand that gripped his face in a bruising grip tightened even more, squeezing his gums harshly into his clenched teeth. The man leaned in and growled menacingly in his ear. The rough gravel of his voice spoke clearly of his failing health and excessive overuse of cigarettes. “Now Fancy Man, don't move or scream or I'll kill you.” The man's breath was utterly repulsive. The stench of his earlier meal wafted towards him and he tried to wrinkle his nose in disgust only to have that nasty hand clamp even tighter around his face. “Nod if you understand.”

He couldn't be bothered to try and resist the overwhelming urge he had to roll his eyes at the idiot. Hadn't the dunce just stated that he was not to move? Then. in the next disgusting breath, he contradicted himself with his follow up statement by telling him to nod. He suppressed an annoyed sigh, more because he didn't want to inhale any more of the abhorrent stench than necessary rather than out of any form of fear. 

Slowly he nodded his head while waiting for the next ridiculous demand to spew forth from the dullard's bacteria infested mouth. His show of meek compliance resulted in the offensive hand slowly being removed from the vicinity of his face. Unfortunately, he was still pressed rather firmly against the verminous wall, but that would be remedied soon enough.

“You're kinda pretty Fancy Man, maybe I'll have a bit of fun with you first.” The cretin chortled to himself and the loathsome hand that had held his face squeezed between the wall and him to grope roughly down his chest to his waist and began to awkwardly try and work his belt loose.

A shudder crept over his body, not in terror of this pathetic excuse for a human being, but at the very idea of that soiled hand coming into contact with any more of his skin than he already had touched. He was already intending on burning the clothing he wore at the earliest opportunity, there would be no salvaging his attire. “It would be in your best interest to release me now.” He drawled out the words calmly even though his temper was beginning to surface. He was giving the halfwit a single chance. It could not be stated that he wasn't a good Samaritan.

The imbecile growled at the warning given and retaliated by twisting his arm up higher behind his back. He was forced to hunch forward, pressing himself into the feculent wall, lest the moron actually manage to dislocate it. “Now, now, Fancy Man, no back talk or I'll have to kill you.” The threat was uttered against his ear as the dolt crowded in close, the repulsive hand pulling his hips into contact with the simpleton's pathetic excuse of an erection.

Another shudder racked his body at the feel of the putrid breath on his skin and he didn't bother trying to contain his sigh this time. Repetition of a rather mundane threat, how boring. He doubted that the dimwit would have any idea of what to do with a dead body even if the fool did somehow manage to kill him. This wasn't even remotely entertaining anymore and the hand that was tugging aggressively on his belt was raising his hackles. As it appeared that his kind warning was not heeded it was time for him to deal with the situation.

He reached back with his right hand, allowing even more of himself to be pressed against that damned rancid wall and grabbed the wrist of his left hand. When the clod noticed what he had done the ingrate tried to force his twisted arm up again. Because of the grip he now had on his encumbered wrist the motion was unsuccessful and he pushed down with greater force than the idiot. While he was doing this he slammed the heel of his only recently acquired dress shoe down on the dunce's rather large foot. 

The dullard cried out in a mixture of surprise and pain, fetid breath exploded from his mouth as he hunched in, trying to draw the injured foot away. As the cretin did that he released his wrist and slammed his right elbow sharply into the halfwit's face, a wicked smile curving his lips at the sharp crunch that accompanied the moderate amount of pain he had accrued from the action.

“Bloody hell!” The imbecile exclaimed, though the words were somewhat strained now and finally let go completely. The moron backed away, stumbling over the foul trash which littered the ground in places, all the while clutching at his now profusely bleeding nose. The dolt continued swearing loudly, the words muffled by the nasty hands which covered the equally filthy face and the fool glared murder through watering eyes. “I'll kill you.” The snarl was stuffy as air could no longer pass through what was once clear nasal pathways.

He cocked his head, finding it interesting that he caught those last three words so clearly when all the others had been mostly beyond comprehension. He smiled slow and wicked as he casually reached into the front inner pocket of his suit. When he withdrew his hand he was holding a small object that would have caught in the light had there been any sun to shine down on them.

“Now, now, my dear. I did warn you.” He tisked gently with a sad little shake of his head. “You really should have released me when you had the chance.” He thumbed the catch and flicked his hand out, silver flashing as he twisted and twitched his hand twice more, resulting in the knife resting securely in his palm.

The simpleton's beady eyes narrowed in a combination of fear and affront as they flickered from his face to his hand. The dimwit began to back away again, all the while fumbling in the revolting excuse for a coat. Satisfaction warred visibly with the pain the fool was feeling when he stopped his retreat and began inching closer again. The reason for the change in attitude was clear when the clod began erratically swinging a long blade while closing the distance between them once more.

He sighed at the useless show of aggression but waited to see if the ingrate actually had any idea on how to use the weapon. When the idiot just lunged at him he calmly sidestepped, silver glinting as his blade drew a line of red across the dunce's knife arm. The dullard yelped loudly and spun, stumbling away before rushing forward again while brandishing the weapon in a chaotic attempt to injure with no thought of how to best achieve that result.

Once more he sidestepped with a shake of his head, disappointment filling him at the pathetic excuse of an assault. What was the world coming to that such a pathetic excuse for a criminal even breathed? His hand shot out to slice a long gash across the man's torso this time. The wound was deep enough to slice through the skin and some of the stomach muscles but not all the way through to the intestines beneath.

The cretin cried out in pain and dropped his big knife, both hands coming up to clutch at the soiled and vile material that covered the gaping flesh in his stomach. The halfwit began to back away again in terror this time, only now realizing that the little fish that he had picked was in fact far bigger than himself.

He began to slowly advance on the ingrate, stepping carefully through the rank trash strewn throughout the alleyway, all the while admiring the bright splashes of red that had begun to decorate the idiot's horrendous attire. It really livened the cloths up, made it much more festive and eye catching. His smile widened further, white teeth flashing, as he contemplated where he should add the next wound.

The imbecile began gibbering, putting him in mind of a monkey, the words mostly muffled by the blood flowing from the moron's face. He caught a few of the panicked words in the jumble of nonsense such as 'please,' 'no,' and 'sorry.' They were boring and predictable and he really did not like being bored, it made time hellishly slow.

He wanted the moron to do something surprising or spontaneous. Anything other than the entirely expected crying and begging followed by the clumsy retreating that the moron was attempting to do right now. He didn't think the idiot even had it in him for another one of his useless threats. It was such a disappointment.

Music filled the alleyway and he paused in his slow forward advance. He debated for a long moment, enjoying the lyrics of 'Can't Touch This', before reaching into a side pocket. He pulled out a slim black phone and swiped his thumb across the screen. He didn't speak, only held the device to his ear, all the while watching as the dolt stumbled and fell with a pained yelp, landing in a dark wet spot that stank nearly as much as the simpleton. The dimwit braced one hand against the ground and scrambled clumsily to his feet once more and continued backing away, a red line of the fool’s life blood trailing after him.

“Are you finished?” The voice on the other end was purposefully light, attempting to give no emotion away, but he knew better.

“He ruined my suit.” He knew that he sounded petulant, but damn it, he was wearing a Zegna. More importantly, it had been one of his most favourite suits. 

“Do you want me to finish him off?” The voice changed tones subtly, sounding more concerned now.

He puffed out a breath, wrinkling his nose again at the various repugnant stenches in the alleyway. “This game isn't much fun. Too easy.” He grumbled to the person on the other line. Idly he began flicking the knife. The shining silver glinted as he spun it carelessly in his hand, the handle separating and closing around the blade before opening again in quick flashes. The entire time he kept his eyes trained on the horrendously filthy brute that made the grave mistake of touching him.

“I'm going to take care of him then.” The voice had changed again, sounding firm now that a plan of action had been decided.

He pursed his lips and shrugged his shoulders, knowing that the casual motion would be seen. “Pick up some Chinese.” He shifted to cradle the phone between his shoulder and ear before slipping the now free hand into a pocket and withdrawing a handkerchief. He began to remove every visible trace of blood that he could see on the blade, there wasn't much. 

“Of course, Moriarty. Do you require anything else?” The voice was now hesitant, perhaps wondering if he would be in a foul mood, later tonight after this most unfortunate and revolting little interlude.

Bunching the now soiled material he shoved it into his pocket to be disposed of and with a quick twist of his wrist, he closed the butterfly knife. He reached back into the suit jacket and tucked it into the narrow holder he'd had made specifically for that purpose. He took a hold of his phone once more and with one last look at the disgusting ingrate purposefully turned away. “Where did we put that Twister game?” Without bothering to wait for a response he ended the call and dropped the phone into his empty pocket.

One step, two. He heard the telltale crunch of Seb's bullet piercing through the dimwit's cranium. A second later the body crumpled to the ground and the alleyway became much more peaceful. Smiling to himself he shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks and whistled a jaunty little toon as he calmly strode away.

~Fin~


End file.
